Hardcastle's Soldiers Page 5

  ‘I saw it in the grounds of the Bethlehem Hospital. Still on fire, it was.’

  ‘You could have said that in the first place, Ernie. I’m not in your precious police force, and I don’t know where L Division is.’

  ‘L Division is where we live, Alice,’ rejoined Hardcastle, scoring a point. At least, in his own mind. ‘Anyway, it’s that precious police force, as you call it, that pays me enough to put our food on the table, my girl.’

  Alice carefully pushed her knitting needles into the ball of wool she was using, and placed them on a side table. ‘I suppose that’s a heavy hint that you’ll be wanting a cup of tea,’ she exclaimed as she stood up.

  ‘I’m not too happy about our young Kitty being on the buses,’ said Hardcastle, ignoring his wife’s comment, and returning to their previous conversation. ‘My tram conductor told me that one of their trams got a direct hit the other day. Everyone on it was killed.’

  ‘Well, you won’t stop Kitty, Ernie. Direct hits on trams or not. She’s got a will of her own, that girl.’ And with that comment, Alice disappeared to the kitchen to make the tea. ‘Just like her father,’ she called over her shoulder.

  I might be a DDI at work, thought Hardcastle, but it doesn’t count for much at home.

  Alice returned with a tray of tea things. ‘I was lucky enough to get some of your favourite ginger snaps today, Ernie.’ She poured the tea, and sat down opposite her husband. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t more of those air raids,’ she said. ‘Mr Squires reckons that if there was ever another war, it’d all be with just aeroplanes.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Hardcastle. ‘What the blue blazes does he know about warfare?’ Squires was the red-faced and self-opinionated grocer whose shop was at the end of Kennington Road, and which was patronized by Alice Hardcastle.

  ‘And he says that those tanks they had at the Somme would be the weapon of the future, with no more men dying in the trenches.’

  ‘Does he indeed?’ said Hardcastle. ‘Well, my girl, Field Marshal Haig reckons that once this war is over, tanks will be done with, and aeroplanes, too, I wouldn’t wonder. He said that the army will use cavalry again in the future, and as he’s a field marshal, I should think he knows more about it than Mr Squires the grocer.’

  A fretful Hardcastle had spent Sunday reading the News of the World, and mooning about the house, occasionally doing the various odd jobs that Alice had lined up for him.

  When Monday morning came, he could not get to work fast enough, and arrived at the police station at eight o’clock.

  Following his usual practice, he sat down at the station officer’s desk and examined the crime book.

  ‘The winter patrols nicked a couple of tea leaves breaking into a house in Esterbrooke Street, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘DS Wood’s dealing with them. Up at Bow Street Court this morning.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hardcastle, idly wondering why aspirant detectives continued to be called winter patrols in the height of summer. Satisfied that none of the other entries in the crime book were of immediate interest to him, he stood up.

  ‘Another raid on Saturday, sir,’ said the station officer. ‘One of our lads brought down a Fritz bomber. Landed in the grounds of the Bethlehem Hospital in Lambeth Road, so I heard.’

  ‘I know. I saw it when I was on my way home,’ said Hardcastle curtly, and went upstairs to his office, calling for Marriott on the way.

  ‘Did you hear about the raid on Saturday, sir? Must’ve been about the time you left.’

  ‘Yes, I saw it, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle wearily. He could envisage a day of people asking the same question.

  Unabashed, Marriott continued. ‘The bomber was brought down on L Division’s ground apparently, sir. I hope it wasn’t anywhere near your house.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and I can tell you that Mrs Hardcastle would’ve been extremely annoyed if it had been. She had the curtains down last week and washed them.’ And following that somewhat lame attempt at humour, the DDI took out his pipe and began to fill it. ‘We’ll get off down to Aldershot, then, Marriott, and see what these leery soldiers have got to tell us about the mystery of their missing kit.’

  Hardcastle, a stickler for timekeeping, had ensured that he and Marriott arrived at Aldershot railway station at ten minutes to ten. Once again a military police corporal was waiting with a staff car, and, at ten o’clock precisely, Hardcastle and Marriott walked into Captain McIntyre’s office at Salamanca Barracks.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you to meet Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Fuller at a quarter to eleven, Inspector. He’s the commanding officer of the battalion where Stacey is undergoing training. In the meantime, gentlemen, perhaps you’d care for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hardcastle. He did not want a cup of coffee, and would much have preferred to get on with the job. As a seasoned detective, he knew that the farther away one got from a crime, the less chance there was of solving it. It seemed to him that the army was a bit lackadaisical in its approach, and he hoped that it adopted a more purposeful attitude to prosecuting the war on the other side of the Channel. But he should have known that was the case; senior officers at Scotland Yard never seemed to possess the same urgency as those in the front line of policing.

  Once the unnecessary – in Hardcastle’s view – social niceties of coffee and biscuits were completed, McIntyre took the DDI and Marriott out to his staff car, and together they drove up Queen’s Avenue to Buller Barracks.

  ‘Colonel, this is Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Metropolitan Police, and his assistant, Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  Lieutenant Colonel Valentine Fuller was at least sixty years of age, if not older. He had a grey complexion, a drooping grey moustache and a stooped posture. As he crossed his office to shake hands with Hardcastle, the DDI noticed that he had a pronounced limp.

  ‘Valentine Fuller, Inspector,’ said the colonel in what proved to be a deceptively soft and croaking voice. ‘I’m what they call a “dugout”. I retired from the army in the year ten, but I was called back in 1914 to replace a fitter officer who went off to the war and got himself killed.’ Fuller punctuated this comment with a brief, bitter laugh. ‘Incidentally, the limp is thanks to some damned fool of a subaltern who shot me in the leg on a tiger shoot in India years ago. He wisely resigned his commission sometime later, and went off to do something with stocks and shares in the City. The last I heard of him he was a millionaire. Do sit down, gentlemen.’

  Hardcastle, Marriott and McIntyre took seats on the hard-backed chairs that the army provided for the colonel’s guests. The DDI glanced around the austere office, taking in the photograph of a group of officers wearing tropical kit and pith helmets. In front of them was a dead tiger.

  Fuller noticed Hardcastle’s interest. ‘Taken at Poona in oh-one,’ he commented. A faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Those were the days,’ he said. ‘Now, Inspector, how may I help you?’

  Hardcastle explained the circumstances surrounding the murder he was investigating.

  ‘Well, surely, that’s a matter to be dealt with by the military, ain’t it, eh what?’ Fuller appeared to be somewhat nonplussed by the DDI’s presence in his office, and glanced at the military police officer. ‘General court martial, eh what, McIntyre? I mean the cashier at this, er, booth or whatever it was, was quasi-military, so to speak, and if the man’s killer was a soldier, well, there you have it.’

  ‘Not so, Colonel,’ said McIntyre. ‘The Army Act is quite clear on the subject. It states categorically that if one soldier kills another soldier in England, even on military property, and even in time of war, it is still a matter for the civil police. And, in any event, this murder was on Victoria railway station, and the cashier was a civilian.’

  ‘Really?’ Fuller sounded disbelieving, but he had never been very conversant with King’s Regulations or the Manual of Military Law. ‘Well, in India that sort of thing would have been dealt
with by a field general court martial, eh what?’

  ‘I agree, Colonel,’ said McIntyre patiently, ‘but we’re not in India, sir.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose you military police wallahs know about these things,’ mumbled Fuller. ‘So what d’you want me to do about it, eh, Inspector?’ he said, directing his question to Hardcastle with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I should like to interview the soldiers that Captain McIntyre has identified as having been with Private Stacey the night his cap was stolen.’

  ‘Very well. If you think that’ll help.’ Fuller shook his head, stood up, and limped across to open the door of his office. In a surprisingly loud voice, he bellowed, ‘Sarn’t-major.’

  ‘Sir!’ came a distant reply from down the corridor.

  Moments later, the regimental sergeant-major appeared on the threshold. Magnificently turned out in immaculate service dress with a highly polished Sam Browne belt, he snapped to attention with a crash of his black glass-like ammunition boots and saluted. Both his highly burnished brass crown-in-laurel-leaves rank badge and his regimental cap badge shone in the shaft of sunlight coming through the commanding officer’s window.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Punchard. These gentlemen are from the civil police. They wish to ask some of our recruits questions regarding a matter that I’m sure they’ll tell you about.’ Fuller turned to Hardcastle. ‘RSM Punchard will take care of everything, Inspector. Anything you need, he’ll deal with.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel, most kind,’ murmured Hardcastle. But secretly he was infuriated by the indolent attitude of army officers who seemed unable to grasp the urgency of the matter with which he was dealing. He was not altogether surprised at Fuller’s stance, but felt that McIntyre – a military police officer – should have had a greater awareness of what the police were trying to do. And a greater sense of urgency.

  ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to accompany me, gentlemen,’ said RSM Punchard. Tucking his pace stick under his left arm, he gave the colonel another quivering salute, turned and marched out of the commanding officer’s office.

  Hardcastle, Marriott and McIntyre accompanied RSM Punchard across the vast parade ground that, he told them, was called W Square.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Hardcastle unwisely.

  ‘All the barrack squares in Aldershot are given letters,’ said Punchard. ‘God knows why. You see, Mr Hardcastle, I was a Coldstream Guardsman, and I was trained at Caterham Barracks, the Guards depot. We knew how to do things there. I haven’t always been in Ali Sloper’s Cavalry.’

  Once again, Hardcastle was mystified by army terminology. ‘What on earth is Ali Sloper’s Cavalry?’ he asked.

  It was Captain McIntyre who provided the answer. ‘It’s an army nickname, Inspector,’ he said with a laugh, ‘using the initials ASC, which really means the Army Service Corps.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hardcastle, determined that he would ask no more questions about military customs and terminology.

  FIVE

  The four soldiers, who had admitted being with Stacey on their illegal visit to an Aldershot pub, had been assembled in one of the classrooms, along with Stacey himself, now released from custody.

  ‘Privates Stacey, Ash, Joliffe, Stone and Paterson,’ said the RSM, scowling at the five conscripts, all of whom were standing rigidly to attention. ‘Right, my lucky lads, this here is a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, come to ask you some questions. You will tell him the truth. Understood?’ he added, screaming the last word at them.

  In unison, the recruits shouted, ‘Yessir!’

  Hardcastle did not bother to correct the RSM’s statement that he came from the Yard; indeed, it tended to reinforce his authority. He turned to McIntyre. ‘I think it might be best if Sergeant Marriott and I interviewed these soldiers alone, Captain. In that way they might tell me more than if you and Mr Punchard were present.’

  McIntyre grinned. ‘You may well be right, Inspector,’ he said, ‘but they are already facing charges for being out of barracks without a pass. Not that they would’ve got one.’

  Once Captain McIntyre and RSM Punchard had left, Hardcastle took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco. ‘You might as well sit down, lads,’ he said to the soldiers. ‘I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle, and this is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’

  ‘D’you mind if we smoke, sir?’ asked Private Ash.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hardcastle, lighting his pipe.

  It was not the most ideal of places to conduct interviews, but Hardcastle had already decided that these five young conscripts had had nothing directly to do with Herbert Somers’ murder.

  ‘I’m investigating a murder that took place on Victoria Station during the morning of Wednesday the eleventh of this month,’ Hardcastle began, and sensed that he had immediately captured the young soldiers’ attention. At least, the four newcomers; the DDI had told Stacey about the murder on his previous visit. ‘And I understand that the five of you went drinking in a pub in Aldershot on the Sunday before that. Is that correct?’

  After a brief pause, during which time he glanced at the others, Stacey nodded. ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘When did you notice that your cap was missing, Stacey?’

  ‘It must have been about half past ten, sir,’ said Stacey. ‘I’d hung me cap on a hat peg near the door, but when I went to get it, it’d gone.’

  ‘And was there another cap left there that no one claimed?’ Hardcastle had already been told that no other cap had been left there, but, as was his usual practice, he was confirming the facts.

  ‘No, sir. I had a good look round, but it’d gone, and there wasn’t no other there.’

  Marriott looked up from the notes he was making. ‘One of you had a tunic stolen. Which one of you was that?’

  ‘Me, Sergeant,’ said Private Ash, raising a hand.

  ‘You have more than one tunic, do you?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. We’ve all been issued with two tunics and two pairs of trousers.’

  ‘When was it taken?’

  ‘It was on the Monday morning that I noticed it had gone adrift, Sergeant, but I don’t know when it was took.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon,’ said Ash. ‘It was my best tunic, and I’d took it down to give the buttons a polish. But on Monday morning I noticed it’d been nicked.’

  ‘Have you any idea who took it?’ continued Marriott.

  ‘No, Sergeant.’

  ‘And who was it who lost a pair of trousers?’

  ‘Me, Sergeant.’ Private Joliffe raised a hand.

  ‘And when did you notice them missing?’

  ‘The same as Charlie Ash, Sergeant. I’d seen ’em on the Saturday, but they was gone on the Monday. It was only Charlie saying as how his tunic had been nicked, that made me have a look to see if I’d lost owt.’

  ‘At what time did you notice that your trousers were missing, Joliffe?’

  ‘After we’d come in from working parade, Sergeant. Like I said, on the Monday at about half past eight, I s’pose. We’d come back to get changed for physical training.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Marriott, pointing at Ash.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, Stacey,’ asked Hardcastle, ‘how did you get back to barracks without being seen, especially without a cap? I mean you’d’ve been spotted easily enough, surely?’

  ‘We had to keep a lookout for the monkeys, sir. They’re usually on horseback.’

  Hardcastle took his pipe out of his mouth and glared at the young recruit. ‘I hope you’re not taking the piss, my lad. What’s all this about monkeys on horseback, eh?’ He glared at the unfortunate Stacey.

  But it was Private Paterson who provided the answer. ‘They’re military policemen, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re always called monkeys in the army, and some of them patrol on horseback. With bloody great lances,’ he added.

  ‘I see,�
� said Hardcastle, only slightly mollified. ‘And did you see any of these so-called “monkeys on horseback”?’

  ‘Only the once, sir,’ continued Paterson. ‘In Queen’s Avenue, but we dodged behind the post office till they’d gone past, then we legged it back to barracks.’

  ‘How many people have access to your barrack rooms, Paterson?’ asked Marriott.

  ‘Do what, Sarge?’ Paterson looked mystified by the question.

  Marriott phrased it in a different way. ‘When you’re out of the barrack rooms, are they locked?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. They ain’t got no locks, and in any case the officers and NCOs go round doing snap inspections when we ain’t there.’

  Marriott glanced at Hardcastle. ‘It doesn’t look as though we’re going to get any further with this, sir.’

  ‘No, Marriott. It looks as though someone went into the barrack room while these lads were on parade, and took the tunic and the trousers.’ Hardcastle stood up and walked to the door. ‘I think we’re done here, Captain McIntyre,’ he said.

  ‘Was it any help?’ asked McIntyre.

  ‘Not much. It looks as though someone stole the clothing while those lads were on parade or about the barracks somewhere.’

  ‘They’ll still be charged for the loss.’ RSM Punchard sniffed. ‘Someone’s been smoking in there,’ he said.

  ‘Me, Mr Punchard,’ said Hardcastle mildly.

  ‘Mr Punchard,’ said Marriott, ‘these men said they were issued with two sets of uniform.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Marriott.’

  ‘Does that include two caps?’

  ‘No, they only gets the one cap.’

  Hardcastle was in a foul mood for the whole journey back to London. ‘Well, that was a waste of bloody time, Marriott,’ he said.

  ‘I agree, sir. Just about anyone in the barracks could have swiped those bits of uniform, and according to the RSM there’s about a thousand men under training, plus the permanent staff and the officers.’

  When Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row, there was a message awaiting the DDI.